Also very good in plain yogurt.
Mayers wakes me up with a lemon.That's what he claims, anyway. And I can see him doing it, too. He tells me that his morning starts with the radio, turning on automatically in the darkness of his little room next to the kitchen, and he lies in bed for 20 minutes listening to the news with his eyes closed. When they start to talk about the traffic, he rolls out of his cot and turns off the radio, carefully. In the dimness of the kitchen he starts the coffee, then pulls a lemon from many in the meat bin of the refrigerator and cuts it in half on the butcher block with the sharp knife.
Then he creeps up the back stairs to my loft so not to wake me, not that that'd wake me, and then he stands at the foot of my bed, carefully holds one of the halves up to his face and takes a demonic bite.
This is what he tells me, anyway. I couldn't know: I sleep deep. What I do know is that each morning when we work, I wake to Mayers trapped somewhere between a yell and a whimper, eyes out and gasping for air like a fish in the sky. It's the only thing that works; I can't go back to my dream after a thing like that. And every morning he leans over the foot of my bed with the other half, offering it to me in my blankets with a toothy grin, and I always turn him down.